


falling catching

by ethia



Series: all this that is more than a wish [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: D/s, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Season 3, Smut, and John on top too, h/c, harold's tie, nothing to hide indeed, with smut on top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's eyes are unreadable in the lack of light, but his posture is easy, relaxed. An offer, one that Harold is welcome to take, more so for the fact that he wouldn't readily ask for it. Not out loud, anyway, because that would be crude; but he can ask like this, not a word needed, spelled out between them in a code of their own making.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling catching

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the boys. I don't own the title, either; it belongs to Agnes Obel.
> 
> This is the _other_ coda to Nothing To Hide, the one that just wouldn't leave me alone; it's all the boilermaker's fault. Even though that happened in another episode. But still.

 

 

+++

 

It's not often that he loses a number, these days. Back in the day, before John so auspiciously joined his cause, it used to be more of a common occurrence. Which only makes the loss more profound, more deeply felt – he has the means to do better, now, and yet he let himself be blindsided, and failed a man, and lost a life.

 

The library sits in near darkness, the screens all turned off for once, only faint traces of light filtering in through the grimy window panes. He can't think of anything to do with himself, his thoughts having cut themselves loose to tangle up in an endless cycle of how can we hope to stand our ground against a thousand of them. The question feels like a weight on his shoulders, oppressive and cloying, hunching him in his chair until he feels paralyzed with it.

 

In the distance, he can hear a fine howling, a gust of wind coming in through an open window, picking its way through endless rows of books, dying down to a mere rustling before it reaches him. It's interlaced with another noise that's quickly gaining strength, footfalls on the stairs, steady and measured, one pair of feet.

 

“Where's Bear?” he asks, even before John has fully appeared over the top of the stairs, a little out of breath.

 

“Shaw's taking him out for a walk,” John says, slowing to a halt, the expression on his face hidden from Harold by the distance he keeps. He doesn't comment on the lack of light, or the fact that Harold hasn't done a lick of work since John's left to get Bear out into the fresh air, and Harold is grateful for that. For more than that, actually, because John might just as easily have chosen to stay away, leaving him to his idle musings. Instead he waits, leaning against the wall behind him, arms crossed in front of his chest.

 

“You've been quiet,” he says, softly, after a small while has passed in silence.

 

Forbidding, more like, Harold thinks with a pang of guilt, knowing just how much John dislikes being cut off from him, denied his share in the burden of responsibility.

 

“I've been thinking,” Harold says, almost under his breath, so John must strain to hear him.

 

“It would be a good idea to stop that,” John says, somber, arms dropping to his sides. “For some time, at least.”

 

“Yes,” Harold allows, “it would.”

 

He lets his fingers travel up the length of his tie, stopping at the top, undecided. John's eyes are unreadable in the lack of light, but his posture is easy, relaxed. An offer, one that Harold is welcome to take, more so for the fact that he wouldn't readily ask for it. Not out loud, anyway, because that would be crude; but he can ask like this, not a word needed, spelled out between them in a code of their own making.

 

Harold sighs, a low, faltering sound, the silk of his tie smooth like water between his fingers. He _wants_ ; wants so badly that his fingers tremble with it as he undoes the knot, fumbling with the satiny fabric until finally, the tie comes loose. He places it on the table in front of him, looks at the untidy coil of it and then up at John, who's pushing himself off the wall now, moving toward him, all purpose.

 

John stops in front of him, right there in the space between his thighs, and takes the tie, slips it into his pocket.

 

“You say the word,” he says, very clearly, eyes on Harold's, no room for mixed signals. The reminder's for John's sake alone; Harold won't need him to stop. He huffs out a breath, jittery with tension, and gives a sharp, jerky nod.

 

“Still with the quiet,” John murmurs as he reaches out to take Harold's glasses off. “We'll see about that.”

 

It's a promise, low and raspy, and as such it takes hold in the pit of Harold's stomach, a perfect little tug of lust that very nearly makes him gasp, but he contains the sound, swallows it back down.

 

John places his glasses on the table, well out of reach, then puts his hand on Harold's cheek, his thumb stroking over Harold's mouth lightly. He does that twice, Harold's lips parting under the caress, his mouth opening further when John presses down on his lower lip. John pushes his finger in, and Harold laps at the tip, then swirls his tongue about the thick of it to catch the taste of John's skin.

 

“Good,” John says, and g _od_ , he slides his other hand down the front of Harold's throat, smooth and warm, the tips of his fingers slipping underneath Harold's collar before he strokes his hand back up in one long, fluid motion. He does it again, and again, making Harold swallow under the press of his hand like he would around John's cock, and he grows hard from it, hands tight on the arms of his chair. He raises himself, just a little, sliding his mouth down the length of John's thumb, straining toward him. John starts to pull back and Harold whines in protest, rising higher, going after him, aided up by the firm grip of John's hand on the front of his shirt.

 

“That's it, Harold,” John says, and Harold's cock stiffens at the soft praising tone of his voice, “come here.”

 

John slips his thumb free with a moist, obscene sound; he drags the pad of it over Harold's lips, wetting them with his own spit. Harold hitches a needy little breath under the rub and slide of it, twisting to fit his face into the curve of John's palm, moaning when John lets him mouth at the warm, soft skin there.

 

“So very good,” John whispers, and Harold needs to be closer, so he angles himself forward, just a tiny bit, but John is up to par, catching him out. His reaction is quick, and efficient; with a deft slide of John's hands Harold's arms are trapped behind him, his hands caught in the bunched-up tangle of his jacket. John takes a hold of it, and twists, and Harold surges under the delightful little spike of not-quite-pain that races up the length of his arms, thoroughly held in place by John's sure grip.

 

The sound Harold makes is entirely incoherent, but there's is no misinterpreting the way his hips buck up and toward John. Harold fights not to struggle, to make himself go pliant instead but it's so very hard when all he wants is to bring himself flush with the hard muscle of John's body.

 

He's breathing noisily, his shoulders trembling with tension, but eventually he makes himself relax, submitting to the faint pull of John's hand behind his back, obedient; exactly as good as John requires him to be.

 

“Let me take this off,” John murmurs, contented, and slowly pops open the small buttons of Harold's vest, one after the other, his palm seeping heat into the skin of Harold's chest wherever it lingers. Harold is breathing rapidly through his nose, the scent of John, that earthy tang of him, rich in the air between them, so heavy he can almost taste it in his mouth. He hums with that near-taste, and John slides his vest out of the way, as far down his arms as it will go. John slips his hands over the skin of Harold's wrists, his thumbs pressing in, reinforcing his hold on Harold before he frees him, a small reprieve. Time enough to catch his breath, his eyes on John's hand as it moves to his pocket, the motion slow and drawn-out for Harold's benefit.

 

He watches, mesmerized, as John takes the tie out, uncoils it, then pulls it through his fingers, the flashy purple of the silk in stark contrast to his pale skin.

 

“Put your hands on your back, Harold. You know how.”

 

One hand clasped around the other, his wrists far enough apart to still give his shoulders a limited range of motion, both hands nestled against his back. He's good about it, even turns before John can order him to, exhaling harshly when John slips the silk around his wrists in a loose but secure knot.

 

“And aren't we eager,” John rasps into his ear as he takes hold of Harold's bound wrists, his knuckles pressing lightly into the small of Harold's back, and Harold arches for him, right into the deliciously sharp tug John delivers on the hold of the tie. “I think you know the way.”

 

He does, but John steers him anyway, setting the pace, guiding them toward the narrow cot tucked away in a far corner of the library. Nothing but a metal frame with a thin mattress, but it'll do nicely, just fine, for Harold to grind up into the insistent push of John's weight on top of him.

 

John undresses him quickly, gets him as naked as he can with Harold's arms bound behind his back, which leaves him bare from the waist down, the hard strain of his cock half-hidden by the flaps of his dress shirt, and he feels wanton like this, stripped only as far as needed.

 

The bed creaks as John helps him sit, then stretches him out on his back, his hands trapped under him, the strain in his shoulders a mere nuisance, blanked out by the strum of arousal that strings his body taut. Harold pulls his legs up, puts his feet flat on the mattress, with not quite enough space for John to fit his body between. It's a mutinous act, small but deliberate, and John doesn't disappoint, makes Harold groan low in his throat as he pushes his thighs further apart, spreading him open, as wide as he pleases.

 

John crouches between his legs, still fully dressed, and Harold shivers with the thrill of it, the vast disparity in their state of undress, the inequality of their positions. Shivers harder when John pushes two fingers into him, the burn of it tempered by John's other hand closing around Harold's cock. The sensation is overwhelming; Harold's breath comes as a staccato of grunts, his hips pushing into John's grip, and against the slight curl of his fingers inside Harold. John keeps his touch light, the thrusting of his fingers fast but shallow, making Harold work his hips to find the amount of friction he seeks.

 

Harold escalates his pace as fast as John lets him, moaning when John slides his palm over the head of his cock, hard little rubs that drive Harold higher, and he realizes he's close, he's going to come from this, just John's hands on him and in him, working him ruthlessly until he can feel his body start to tense up with it. He groans with it, his head falling back in anticipation, but the tension won't break, because John keeps him right there, on the cusp of his release, his hand closed tightly around the base of Harold's cock, denying him.

 

He gasps around the banked-up force of the build-up, his muscles trembling with exertion, and feels powerless to hold back the expletive that slips past his lips, apt but unbidden.

 

“I'm afraid I didn't catch that, Harold,” John murmurs, slipping his fingers free to slide his hands under Harold's shirt, pushing him down, then moving to cover Harold's body with his own. The cool slide of his suit against Harold's heated skin feels sinful, as does the hard ridge of his erection where it presses into Harold's stomach.

 

Harold keeps his silence, but barely; John leans to whisper in his ear, his hands calmly dissecting Harold's dress shirt as he speaks.

 

“You're not going to repeat yourself, are you, Harold.” John pushes his shirt aside, the flaps of it pooling over the stretch of Harold's shoulders. “You're not going to give me the satisfaction.”

 

He tugs at the hem of Harold's undershirt, pensive. “All restraint.”

 

Harold squirms, rolls his hips up into the press of John's body, that very restraint starting to fray.

 

“But you know what, Harold?” John pulls his shirt up, inch by inch. “In the end, you're going to yield. You're going to make me hear you. Loud and clear. And the next time I hear your voice in that earpiece, Harold, it'll be hoarse, and we'll both know that it's because of me.”

 

The quiver of tension that runs through his body very nearly undoes Harold, pressed up against John as he is; he bites down on his lip, hard, and keeps quiet, and barely sane.

 

John brings his mouth closer, the tone of his voice raw and intimate.

 

“I'll want you to nod or shake your head for me in a second, Harold, all right?”

 

Harold's mouth falls open around an unspoken question, even as John drags the shirt up over his face, slow and careful, and Harold tenses as he bunches the fabric over his eyes, leaving it there, taking away most of his field of vision except for a tiny sliver on the lower edge of it. This is new, not something they've ever done before, and Harold finds himself thrilled, but not beyond the reach of his trust in John, so that, after a moment's thought, he gives a nod. John hums in his ear, then presses a quick kiss to the shell of it, before he moves away, out of touch.

He isn't gone for long, alerting Harold to his return with a gentle touch to his thigh, making Harold writhe under his hand, aching with his need for release. His awareness of John has changed, now that he can longer see him; his body trying to anticipate John's movements, his remaining senses picking up even trace amounts of scent and sound. The labored in and out of John's breathing; the bed creaking under them as John retakes his place between Harold's thighs; the faintest fragrance of almonds, rising off John's now slick fingers.

 

Harold pushes back on three of them, impatient with John's cautiousness, raising his hips in silent appeal, breathing out on a long moan when John gives in and lowers himself on top of Harold, entering Harold in one slow, languid stroke. Still fully dressed, and Harold moans again, louder this time, with the image of it, John in his suit, moving above him, the fabric dragging heavily, exquisitely over Harold's cock.

 

“Can't hear you, Harold,” John gasps in his ear, his thrusts too slow, too shallow. “Let me hear you, and I'll give you what you want.”

 

This, too, is new, this insistence of John's, but Harold understands where it's coming from, can see where John means it to lead. So he lets the sounds build in his chest, lets them rise up from the pit of his stomach, allows them to slip from his mouth and echo among the shelves around them.

 

John, true to his word, brings himself closer, and deeper, his strokes more powerful with the rising volume of Harold's moans. His body is strumming with the noise he builds, the vibration pulling his mounting need into sharper focus, until he feels like he must burst with the intensity of it. Then John puts his mouth on Harold's throat, closes it over the rise and fall of his Adam's apple, wet and hot, and he hums, low and deep in his throat. The last fine thread of control that's kept Harold tethered snaps and he comes, feels himself pulse heavily between them, feels the heat and rush and glory of it.

 

John pushes the blindfold out of the way, and clings to Harold tightly, finding his mouth in a feral kiss, the bed rattling under them with the strength of his thrusts. He tenses around Harold, slides his face to the crook of his shoulder, his mouth hot and wide open over the side of Harold's neck as he too, goes over the edge, his body trembling between Harold's thighs.

 

He stirs after just a few, heaving breaths, aware of the crush of his weight on Harold, and before long, he's helping Harold stretch out on his side, undoing the tie, his hands running lightly up and down the length of Harold's arms, easing the strain, gentling away the tension.

 

They kiss leisurely, nestled close together on the narrow cot, Harold's fingers brushing under John's shirt in search of warm, naked skin, making up for each caress he couldn't give earlier.

 

"That walk Miss Shaw is taking," he says after some time, the small cough around the unexpected roughness of his voice bringing a smirk to John's lips, "would it be long enough to cover, say, a quick shower?"

 

"That, and a few hours of sleep before we get back to work."

 

Brooking no argument, and Harold exhales slowly, an almost sigh, his hand hesitant on John's arm.

 

"I have no idea where to start, John." The admission wouldn't come earlier, but he can say it now, with the exigent weight on his shoulders lessened by a good degree.

 

"You'll think of something. You always do."

 

"That's a lot of faith to put in just one man."

 

"I don't seem to know how to do things by halves, Finch. Besides, you've taught me otherwise."

 

John's smirking again, and Harold doesn't mind the tease, not when he's earned it so thoroughly.

 

"Fair enough, Mr. Reese." With a small measure of regret, Harold disentangles himself from the heavy sprawl of John's limbs to get up, stretching out a hand for John to pull himself up on. "Come on, let's go."

 

John steadies him as he slips his pants and shoes back on, rather haphazard but good enough for decency's sake, and they set off together, shoulder to shoulder, strolling down the long, paper-strewn aisle that leads to the staff room with its bare-bone shower stall.

 

"I've been wondering," Harold says, apropos of nothing.

 

"Yes?"

 

"That's quite a long walk Miss Shaw has agreed upon to take."

 

"Oh, she's good at taking orders."

 

"Most of the time," Harold mutters, very much not under his breath, feeling vindicated by the small twitch around John's mouth.

 

"It's all about incentive, really."

 

"I dread to imagine, Mr. Reese."

 

"Apparently, you owe her a fancy dinner reservation at the Grand, Finch. No more than petty cash. And well invested, too."

 

"Very well, indeed."

 

The stall fits the both of them snugly, and Harold takes advantage by leaning some of his weight on John, who lends his strength as generously as the soft kisses he paints on Harold's water-slicked skin.

 

Warm water patters over them like a sudden gust of summer rain, the sound of it drifting through the dark of the library, swallowed up by the thick leather-bound volumes stacked from floor to ceiling, never reaching the outside, where the city is abuzz with the potential of eight million numbers. Some, they will save; others, they will lose. Most, they will never even meet.

 

But they'll find a way to fight for each and every one of them.

 

 

 

 

Fin.


End file.
